


The Little Church

by Isabelle Hemlock (isabelle_hemlock)



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: M/M, gay fluff, interfaith relationships at its finest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-10
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:55:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25830928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isabelle_hemlock/pseuds/Isabelle%20Hemlock
Summary: On their one year anniversary, Yusuf and Nicolo do some reflecting on their journey so far and how deeply ingrained their faith is tied to their identity - and how that’s a beautiful thing.  Gay fluff at it’s finest.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64





	The Little Church

**Author's Note:**

> A sort of sequel to “They emerged once more, and beheld the stars” (though not necessary to read to follow along) :)

**1110 AD - Sardinia**

**Nicolo**

I have to admit that as much as Yusuf has barely let me come up for air this last year - I am a little surprised when my hints of the passage of time have not stirred a deeper conversation about the upcoming anniversary.   
  
Maybe he is just distracted from having to leave Malta a few days ago as we resettle in Sardinia. We had agreed years ago never to allow ourselves to get too comfortable in one place. No more than one year in any given place (just in case we run into people who notice our lack of aging). 

And then we left just before the year was up. Before we did, it seemed easy enough to point out - _“Oh it’s been almost a year since we came here”_ . . . because I wanted to celebrate that a bit. But then Yusuf would talk about  _ that _ night, the night before we came to Malta when we discovered just how deep our feelings ran. And well, the conversation would die down, and sweet tender exchanges of another sort would happen . . .

Now that the actual date is upon us, I make an excuse to leave the house in order to head to the marketplace near the port. It shouldn’t take horribly long, but even a short absence feels disjointing. Yusuf agreed a little too easily to stay behind and set things up in the new house we are renting on the island and I smiled and pretended not to know he was up to something. I tell myself it’s the new place, maybe he’s making my favorite meal - and that it’s not in relation to the anniversary date (in case he really did forget).   


I hear the marketplace as I round the corner, and get a whiff of all kinds of delicious scents.

My stomach feels empty, and though I do prefer to watch what I eat, I have to admit after such a long fasting season I am ready to pick up some meats from the market. Technically Ramadan ended two days ago, just as we disembarked the ship, but Lent had come and gone almost two weeks ago. When Yusuf asked me why I hadn’t returned to my usual diet, I told him I wanted to wait till his season was over, so we could enjoy the meal together. I didn’t _think_ it was such a romantic statement, but Yusuf felt so moved, he pulled me close to him that night in a way that still makes me feel my cheeks heat at the memory.

I see the tents lined in their familiar patterns, and head into the space. Food aside, my main goal is actually something else entirely. Something he had been building up to these last few months, and as I dip into the shade of the fabrics, I head to the unfamiliar section.

I know exactly what I’m getting him.

**Yusuf**

Nicolo had swept the space before he left, opened a window that was facing the ocean, and gave me the softest kisses to wake up before he left. I don’t like the idea of him walking alone - a fear that has only intensified since we’ve declared our love for one another. But he is trained, and it’s daylight, and I did need the man to leave in order to work on my surprise for him. 

He’s been dropping hints about how it’s been “almost a year” for weeks now, and I distract the conversation with kisses of my own, because I don’t want to lie to him and say I have no idea what he’s talking about. But I don’t want to spoil the surprise either.   
  
I rolled out of the temporary bed space an hour ago, and after a light breakfast, I pull the two boxes we had transported on the ship from out of the corner by the wash basin. We learned to carry light with as much as we move. But still, we have accumulated a few things over the last 11 years of immortal life. Lifting the wooden top, I dig into Nicolo’s pile. We were going to do this together, but I want to have the majority of things set up before he comes back from the marketplace.    
  
Nothing makes me feel more loved than when I’m in Nicolo’s embrace and he tells me how much he loves me. But for Nicolo, even though my words make him blush, his face lights up differently when I do something like this for him. He’s always doing for others (almost to a fault) - handing out our supplies, cloths, food, and sometimes even the few coins we had managed to save from the previous job we had completed. And during those first few meager years - when our pain and frustration and trauma left us with an uneasy truce traveling from one port city to the next (where we could blend in  _ slightly _ better) - it would frustrate me. Just because we couldn’t die, didn’t mean we couldn’t feel the pain of starving to death. But Nicolo would give me a pleading- _ please-understand _ look with those beautiful ocean colored eyes of his, and I lost all reasoning skills.

I remember in the last year - this wonderful, blissful,  _ amazing _ year - asking him more about it, and he explained the corporal and spiritual works of mercy to me that his Church taught. It was a bittersweet conversation. On one hand, after sharing how my own faith taught the need for good works, too, we were able to breach the subject of our faiths a bit easier. But on the other end of the spectrum, we had both been taught that the other one was not only “wrong”, but if unable to convert it was okay to use force as necessary. Long, uncomfortable, conversations filled with apologies and tears were gone over in such detail for weeks, that by the end of it - a deeper connection was formed. 

Our faiths weren’t  _ that _ different. And after learning more about them, Nicolo asked me one night, almost a year ago, if it bothered me that he was still Catholic. He didn’t go to mass, but he did pray quite often, he lived it out in his daily life - but he wanted to set up a little home altar and wanted to make sure that it would not make me uncomfortable in our shared space.   
  
“Does me being a Muslim make you uncomfortable?” I remembered asking him. I already knew the answer, nothing about me seemed to bother him. He found me endearing, for some reason.    
  
And Nicolo looked up at me from his resting spot on my chest, “It wouldn’t if you were.”   
  
“ _ If _ I am?” I chuckled. Being Muslim was as much biological, as it was cultural in my opinion - but I knew what he was getting at. I hadn’t prayed in ten years. And Nicolo held onto me, patient as always, as I felt my emotions from the confession I had bottled up for a decade. In slow, and careful ways, a little afraid to be that honest . . . I had explained that it wasn’t that I _ lost _ faith. I still believed in Allah, but I was also hurt, because I felt like He had stopped listening the moment we became reborn into this weird cycle of eternity.   
  
Nicolo held me a little tighter, and said he sometimes feared the same - but that we were only human, we weren’t meant to know all of God’s plans, and His work behind the scenes. We might never know in this lifetime why we are the way we are.  _ But that’s what faith is _ , he countered,  _ believing even without seeing _ .

He clasped my hands in his, told me he didn’t want me to feel ashamed of my faith, and that he loved me . . . Nicolo’s words healed something deep inside me that night. It would be a process, we both knew that, but that night we fell asleep as I taught him the 100 prayers in Arabic. And the next day, he taught me the 150 ones his priests do.

**Nicolo**

I see the stall of prayer beads and know I’m getting closer.

I do glance at a few much prettier glass beads than the wooden ones Yusuf carries in his collection of wrapped up blankets. One time, months and months ago, I had caught him roping the beads between his hands, his lips moving quietly, but once he realized I had spotted him he felt a little self conscious. I leaned over, kissed his soft hair, and sat down beside him, doing my best - but still a laughable effort - of saying my Our Father’s and Hail Mary’s in broken Arabic with him. He in turn, spoke his final prayer in Latin, and though it was just as bad as my Arabic, I still felt like we entered a different kind of intimacy that day.

Times that we would kneel beside each other in front of the fireplace, praying, is something just as beautiful as the kisses he gives me after. And when I found a rosary at the marketplace in Malta a few months back, I bought it immediately, and we smiled at each other all the way home. I’ve lost track of how many times we woke up to the low tide on the beach and sat and watched the sun rise, grateful for yet another day of offering prayers of thanks. Side by side with our prayer beads. _Always._ _   
_   
I almost debate getting him a new set of prayer beads, but he had fashioned his own in such a lovely way - that I stick to the original plan and walk deeper along the path. 

**Yusuf**

Over the last year, quietly, and as unassuming Nicolo likes to pretend to be, he has collected a few things for his home altar. He had made a small wooden cross - a little haphazardly if I was being impartial - and placed it near a candle.    
  
He dug out a locket that his grandmother had given him - with the inscription “Mary, mother of God, pray for us” in Latin, and laid it out on a small square white tablecloth on the fireplace. And then of course there was the Rosary he bought several months ago. He seemed excited to explain how having it would help in his own prayers, and then explained the Ave prayer to me. 

When I explained to him about Maryam, and what was said about her in the Quran, Nicolo clutched his beads and smiled, saying that he liked the idea of the “mother’s mantle encompassing us all”. It was then that I could tell just how important she was to him.    
  
We hadn’t really allowed ourselves to think about the families left behind in our previous life - allowing messages of our “death” to surely be sent back to our homes. We never considered going back, because as painful as it was, they deserved to grieve us. We were different now anyways. And though neither of us cared what strangers around us thought, the idea of likely rejection from our families was enough to have us keep our distance. But from what little Nicolo shared about his home life, he had a decent mother, and now liked to refer to “Mother Mary” as loving him in ways his “own mother could not”.    
  
She’s important to my faith. But for him, she's more  _ personal _ . . . and so as I unpack the final item for the altar - my present to him, that I had bought just a week ago, I smile. He’ll love it - an icon of Mary with little gold leaf details, no bigger than our hands. I walk over to the small table, by the front door, overlooking the window facing the ocean. All the items now carefully arranged.   
  
Taking a step back, I imagine Nicolo waking up in the mornings, and doing his prayers. If we’re at home, he’ll do them throughout the day, like I have been slowly getting back in the habit of doing as well. But now all the items are arranged so nicely, because I want him to feel comfortable to display his faith. He always has in a way, but now it’s really undeniable when walking into our home.   
  
I can’t wait for him to get home and see . . . but there’s a few more things I can still work on before he does.  _ So I better get to it. _

**Nicolo**

I pay two gold coins for it, but it’s worth it. It comes with a leather carrying case, and I can sling it over my shoulder, while carrying the bag of food back.    


Yusuf has been growing in his daily spiritual practices, and I hope my gift can be one more thing to help him feel less disconnected from his life before. It’s best not to dwell on it too much, of course, but in the uncertainty of this strange life we are living - we find mutual comfort in our faith, and I never want him to feel shy about expressing his with me.    
  
If we really have eternity in front of us, even if I can’t really imagine it right now, maybe one day it would be safe to go back to the Holy Land. It would mean something different to each of us, but a pilgrimage to Jerusalem feels somehow full circle. One time Yusuf joked he would take me to the Vatican, he would just need help finding a costume that would help hide his skin color. I told him that the thought of anyone possibly accosting him for being near the Holy Father wasn't funny . . . but Yusuf didn’t even fully understand my feelings, until I “joked” about how things would go for me, if I took him on a pilgrimage to Mecca.    
  
“Not well”, he answered quietly, and we were both a little sad about it.   
  
“One day”, I countered. But until then, our own little home church would have to do.

I reached the end of the cobble stoned street, where the buildings began to taper off, and turned onto the dirt path going up the hill. Soon I’d be home.

**Yusuf**

I hear him walk up the stone steps, boots tapping a little against the balcony before he reaches the door. I left it unbolted, and he walks in so casual, as if my heart doesn’t do a little skip upon seeing him.    
  
Nicolo is carrying a large slinged package over his shoulders, and I raise an eyebrow, thinking he’s got more than a few days worth of food in there. But the leather strap over his chest, hiding a cylinder container behind his back is the most curious. I ponder if it’s a weapon he wanted to add to our little collection, but instead his wide eyes fall over the main living space, and I take a moment to appreciate his surprised face. I’m glad he likes it.    
  
“You were busy,” he says as he puts the bag of food down by the shelves near the fireplace. The mantel has a metal cup with some wildflowers in it, and a few candles which I think will look nice tonight. The sea air blowing in, ruffles the crochet curtains ever so slightly, and contributes to a nice breeze throughout the room. Some small wooden steps - now lined with several books - lead to the space upstairs with a small balcony, but I haven’t cleared it yet of cobwebs. But I don’t think either of us mind spending one more night on the furs in front of the fireplace.   
  
It’s sparse but we’ll fill it with love in the next few weeks. Some more books, and scrolls to unpack, and sketches to hang that Nicolo insists are my best talent outside of the bedroom. We don’t need much and luckily the place came with exactly one chaise, some shelves beside the fireplace, one table for the food, and one small table that is now home to the altar by the window behind him. 

When he follows my line of sight, and sees the display, he stills for a moment as he takes it in, “Yusuf - “   
  
I walk over to him, and smile, “You like it then?”

He nods, a little too emotional to speak, and I know I did good. Pride being a sin I’m still working on. But when it comes to Nicolo I will always rejoice in the fact that I can make him this happy. Maybe it’s not  _ pride _ exactly, just love swelling in my chest.   
  
“When - where did you get the icon?” his fingers carefully pick it up, and I shake my head, “Well, let’s just say they were very excited about a Muslim buying a Catholic icon - I fear they might have insinuated I was converting. And Allah forgive me, but I didn’t correct them . . . and so they gave it to me for free.”   
  
Nicolo chuckles, putting it back on the table just as gently as I had, and beams, “This is beautiful  _ habibi _ .” The Arabic endearment sends all sorts of flutterings in my chest, but he’s about to undo me completely when he turns to me, a little twinkle in his eyes, “And I think I have the perfect thing to finish our little church.”   
  
I raise an eyebrow, “It’s not perfect as it is?”   
  
“It’s missing you Yusuf, so no, not quite perfect yet.”   
  
I admit I am totally confused by now, and watch him unsling the leather strap. He unbuckles the middle, and carefully places it on the ground. Then - slowly - he unrolls the rug and my heart almost shatters with the joy overflowing. My hands raise to my mouth and I sink down the floor in front of it - a prayer rug. 

He bought me a prayer rug.   
  
Tears dim the sight of it, but it’s still beautiful. Blue and green ocean colors, just like Nicolo’s eyes, and gold trim along the edges. I don’t know what to say, and feel like all the emotion is stuck in my throat as I look at Nicolo. Sweet, caring, loving, very  _ Catholic _ Nicolo - went to the market and bought me a Muslim prayer rug.   
  
“This is your home, too - We should both share this space for our daily prayers  _ amore mio _ .”   
  
I nod, blinking a tear (or two) out, before allowing my fingers to carefully feel the texture of the rug. My fingers move along, studying and tracing along the little designs. And when I reach the  _ mihrab _ some of the emotion stuck in my throat comes out. I hadn’t realized how much I missed the sight of it, until it was right here in front of me.

Only when Nicolo’s fingers slowly entwine with mine am I able to push away the tears and raise my eyes to his, “Thank you  _ ya amar _ , thank you.”   


He says it all in the way he looks at me. Content and grateful and so full of love for me. But as I lift the rug into my arms, I still need to hear the words of affirmation, “You won’t mind that I set up a prayer corner?”   
  
“So long it’s next to my altar,” he says it immediately, no second thoughts or doubt in his voice.

I smile, already knowing the answer before I even ask, “Together?”   
  
“Always.”

I close my eyes, allowing the word - this gift, to settle into my very soul. I didn’t think I could love Nicolo more but every time I think I have him figured out, he shifts another chamber of my heart, unlocking it and replacing it with sweet words. Endearing gestures. Genuine kindness. Kisses and sighs and moans. He could ask me for anything, and I’d oblige - what I wouldn’t do for this man . . . 

**Nicolo**

After he places the prayer rug against the small table, he comes back to stand beside me.

We look at our little church - the altar on the table, the prayer rug safely tucked away in the leather case leaning against it . . . and I feel almost as overcome as Yusuf was a moment ago. There’s a union happening here, a quiet declaration to anyone who came into this home that we love our God. Our one God, merely worshiped and given glory in different ways, but the same God none the same. 

“Happy Anniversary,” he quietly says beside me, and I close my eyes and relish the relief cooling my worries from earlier.

Yusuf wraps one arm around my neck, and my hands curl around his forearm as my head settles back against his shoulder. I’m pretty sure he can hear the smile on my face, even if he can’t see it, “I thought that maybe you had forgotten the significance of today.”   
  
Yusuf chuckles, not offended or concerned at all, and dips his head into the crook of my neck, leaving a light kiss against my skin, “How could I forget the day you made me the happiest man on this side of eternity?”   
  
But his voice isn’t dripping in playfulness, he’s so serious that I’m glad he’s holding me up, or else I might have gone a little weak in the knees, “You make it sound like we got married . . . “   
  
Yusuf lifts his head, his mouth opening a little to lick the sensitive part of my skin just below my ear, “Did we not?” 

I groan a little against him, closing my eyes, “I certainly don’t remember a ceremony.” 

Yusuf’s other hand comes around, and begins lifting the tunic I’m wearing, “Our love is different for the world - why would our marriage not be as well? I don’t need the ceremony. You have all of me already, for eternity.”   
  
What could I possibly say to that? 

Not that I had long to process, because now his fingers tease at the hem of my pants, and all thoughts leave me as the blood rushes down below.   
  
Afterwards, I’ll tell him how he has all of me as well - forever, too.

And tonight, during our prayers, we’ll worship God together.   
  
But right now we bolt the door, and the windows, and light a few candles.    
Then settle into the makeshift bed of furs to enjoy our own little piece of Heaven. 

**Author's Note:**

> Some translations: 
> 
> Habibi - my love in Arabic  
> Amore mio - my love in Italian  
> Ya Amar - the moon in Arabic
> 
> (all found online with a Google search - if inaccurate, feel free to leave me a comment!)
> 
> Also, I ADORE the idea of how their faith could be a big part of their identity - so after writing about that on Tumblr, and encouraged by a few lovely people to write that out a bit more, this fic was born. Even though I'm Catholic, all references to the Islamic faith are based on internet searches. So please, please, please, if I have something that is woefully inaccurate representation of the Islamic faith, please let me know and I will edit the work accordingly :)
> 
> Other than that, I hope you enjoyed the short fic and are now a puddle of feels for these two cuties <3


End file.
